Praestolatio Prestolatio
by gethsemane342
Summary: Someone suggested hiding here. Tax came because he thought it was better than hiding alone in his apartment. But, looking at his fellow Hunger Games trainers, he knows they are not hiding. They are being what they are supposed to be: another symbol of the Capitol that the rebels want to destroy.


_**Disclaimer:**_I do not own The Hunger Games either in book or film form.

**A/n: **Took my copy of CF back to my house last time I went to visit my folks and found myself wondering about the Hunger Games trainers. It wouldn't leave me alone and this is the result. Please, enjoy.

_Review Reply to Guest: Yep, you got it. Have a look at that section again and you'll spot him, name and all. _

Praestolatio Prestolatio

They are sitting in the gymnasium when the rebellion reaches the Capitol. He looks around and chokes back a laugh. Atala gives him a look that makes him regret opening his mouth. He looks at the floor silently, hoping that this will appease her. Something tells him that he is the only one who would be amused by the fact that the trainers have subconsciously sat in the same order as the positioning of their Hunger Games training stations.

His fingers trace the floor. It is not as flawless as much of the Training Centre is supposed to be. Years and years of tributes have worn away certain parts. They sit close to the sword fighting area and the tip of his finger moves up and down as it goes over the mark that Lief Sareg made on the first day of training for the Seventieth games. Lief could have won if the arena hadn't flooded. There had been no chance that a boy from District Eight would know how to swim.

He doesn't remember every tribute he saw in his work. He knows many of the others don't want to remember. Some don't care; others hurt too much. There is an art to what they all do that the Capitol has never appreciated and that the tributes never had the time to appreciate. Even Cultri – whose techniques were used by Clove to torture her victims just two years ago – would rather have been a street performer, delighting the citizens of the Capitol with his skill.

He stops tracing the floor with his right hand and, instead, reaches for the bow by his side. It is silver, tightly-strung, and is no bow at all to his mind. Bows and arrows are mainly wooden affairs. Wood is what he learnt on when he first learnt to shoot and if Katniss Everdeen – the only person who he admits _might_ be a better shot than he is – had used a metal bow wherever she learnt to shoot, he will eat his own arrows. Perhaps he is a snob but, in his opinion, people who use metal bows are uncultured cretins who want to look good. He has always understood why the Capitol only uses metal bows in the Hunger Games.

There is a boom in the distance. He looks up, his lips moving in useless calculation. This isn't thunder and lightning; he has no idea how far away they are. He looks at his metal bow and bites back another laugh, this time a hysterical one. These rebels have high tech guns and bombs. If he stands there with his bow and arrows, he will be dead before he even loads the string.

"What are we doing?" Cultri asks. He has a knife and a dirk hanging at his belt but Tax knows him. Cultri has at least six blades on him. Six blades that will be no use whatsoever against the rebels.

Atala nods as though Cultri has confirmed a suspicion she held. "I don't know."

No one says anything. Tax wants them to. He wants to hear screaming and denials. Sobbing. Laughter. Anything except the gloomy silence that has filled the air since they arrived. Someone suggested hiding here and he came because he thought it was better than sitting alone in his apartment. But they aren't really hiding. They are being where they are supposed to be. Symbolising one more aspect of the Capitol that the rebels will want to destroy.

He has entertained the possibility of the Capitol winning this rebellion. He is almost certain that they won't. The trainers here have made a living on old weaponry, survival and training. There is a reason they are forbidden to participate in the betting pools for the Hunger Games.

Olivara stands up. Her mouth trembles. "What if they come in here?"

She has only been a trainer since the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. As the youngest here, she is allowed to be scared, he thinks. He finds it strange that she took up this job or even that it was offered to her. Her sister is an avox and rumour has it that the President is watching her family carefully.

"We display our different skills," Absconia answers wryly. "I, for example, shall paint myself to look like the climbing frame. Tax will shoot them. You display plenty of berries before them so that they poison themselves. And Atala can tell them what each of us is doing."

Tax laughs even though the situation is not at all funny. Absconia smiles at him. They kissed once, he remembers. It was his first year here and her fourth. They were celebrating the end of the Games and both were drunk. They agreed not to tell anyone else about it or, indeed, ever bring it up again. She has a boyfriend – a technology engineer, currently working overtime in the defence sector. He hopes that the boyfriend appreciates Absconia's lips more than he did.

Atala sends him another warning look. "There's no point panicking," she says to Olivara. "Nowhere is safe anymore."

Yes, Tax thinks. Very reassuring.

Another boom sounds, closer this time. They're taking their time about it although he supposes that they have no reason to suspect the Hunger Games trainers are sitting in the gymnasium of the Training Centre. He doubts that they are a priority.

Viss pulls Olivara down and puts his arm around her. No words pass between them but Viss has never needed words. One of the trainers' running jokes is that no one ever learns wrestling because Viss won't speak to them. But Olivara calms down and leans on one of Viss' strong shoulders.

In the seventy-third Hunger Games, Viss fell hard for one of the female tributes. The girl died, of course, but Viss never spoke about it again. Tax wonders where he channelled the pain he felt. Viss is not a violent man.

"We could give ourselves up," Ignis says. "Offer our services, perhaps."

"Your services? They have enough fire, Ig."

Gladia never means to be cruel, Tax thinks as he watches Ignis' face fall, but she manages it anyway. It's true that the last thing the rebels want or need is an old man telling them how to make a fire using flint. But he can't hate Gladia. After all, they also don't need a swordswoman and she clearly knows this. And besides, Gladia and Ignis always argue. It's what they do. It's who they are.

He claps his hands in an effort to appear decisive. Everyone turns to him expectantly. He realises that he should have thought of what he was going to say before he clapped his hands.

"We can't sit around moping," he says, to cover up his uncertainty.

"And your idea is?"

"Escape!"

Absconia walks over to him, claps a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. "Tax, my boy, you are a mastermind. Where is your hovercraft?"

"I ... will think of that later."

"Is this before or after they find us?"

"I ... will think of that later."

Cultri sniggers. Tax smiles his lopsided smile. So much for spurring action into these people. Absconia shakes her head and walks back to her position. But she is smiling too. Atala, of course, is not pleased. He doesn't dare look at Olivara.

Scipion flinches at the third boom. He sits hunched up and his leg trembles. Scipion is small but no less talented than anyone else sitting here. He is Tax's age almost exactly to the day. His hair is so spiky that Tax has always wanted to ask him whether he models his looks after the maces he loves so much.

The wail of voices outside is louder and Scipion looks toward the ceiling. "They're coming."

That's how he always speaks. Short sentences. Perhaps it is why he and Tax have never been close friends. Tax is wordy, unable to express himself as bluntly as that.

"Maybe we should see what's going on?"

"You want to get blown up, Ig?"

Tax watches Gladia and Ignis argue. It has always struck him as odd that two such different people could be close friends. Ignis gave Gladia away at her wedding; her own father died from illness when she was four.

His fingers trace the floor again. He wishes there were more marks than Lief Sareg's. Marks that could detail an entire history. It would take his mind off the future.

He hears voices coming closer. Faint footsteps from heavy shoes. He looks up and everyone's expression says what he is thinking. The rebels have come.

"People. Stand up," Atala orders. Everyone complies. "We will stay strong. No weeping or crying."

"Remember," Absconia murmurs, "most of you will die from natural causes. Ten per. cent from infection. Twenty per. cent from dehydration. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife."

Tax waits for Atala to glare at Absconia but the stern-faced woman simply smiles slightly. Glares are useless now.

His hands are empty. As the footsteps reach the door, he considers stooping down to pick up his bow but, he realises, that at a time like this, he does not want it. Let the Hunger Games have their metal bows. He is, first and foremost, an archer and he will stand with his wooden bow or with nothing at all.

He takes one final look at his fellow trainers. At Scipion, jittery with his fists clenched. Ignis and Gladia, reconciled over their petty argument. Viss, whose arm remains around Olivara. Absconia, who would be alone, if not for Cultri and Laque who stand either side of her. Hasta, Pondus, Domira, everyone who he has spent a few weeks, every year, working with. And finally Atala, tall and proud, at the front of their group. They still stand in order, with the exceptions of Olivara and Gladia.

The door begins to open and he knows that whatever happens next, he will always be glad that he spent these moments with the people surrounding him. He puts his foot on Lief Sareg's mark and kicks his bow away.

"I'm ready," he whispers.

The door opens and the rebels come in.

_**Fin**_


End file.
